when someone asked, why i consume so much art, yet contribute so little myself:

i remembered the nights of nothing

emptiness.

the urge to latch and become through whatever medium i could grasp my bloodied fingers to

fiction is escapism; and offers a temporary relief

then diverts back to bleak.

at around 15,

i cut my hair, brought. second hand Frank Sinatra vinyls and set to the task of absorbing every word, rhythm, note, chorus

i bought art

monet, picasso to start

just

to feed on and inhale

i wanted to lace my lungs not with stale 3am blank-face-tear-stained. air

but with culture and design and purpose or lack of.

art for the sake of art.

indulge and study, and allow yourself to bloom within mediums

push the constraints

create wholly yourself and you may find you fulfil an identity along the way

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.